


Army Knife, Silver Spoon

by SpaceGoat



Series: Far Cry 5 Week 2019 [2]
Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Attempted Underage, Burns, Gen, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Not graphic but please note the warnings, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceGoat/pseuds/SpaceGoat
Summary: “Spoilt brat like you won’t last a week. If you’d prefer not to get stabbed or robbed, sell the Rolex, keep your head down, drop the accent and the airs and graces.”Sixteen year old John Duncan runs away from home on a cold November night. Lost, alone and desperate to not return to his cruel parents, he finds himself at the mercy of the dark side of Atlanta... only to be rescued by a homeless Iraq War veteran.One shot written for FAR CRY 5 WEEK on Tumblr! - DAY 2: The Project at Eden's Gate





	Army Knife, Silver Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> Good day folks, and welcome to another entry into the Far Cry 5 Week series! A really depressing one this time around, so please bear the tags in mind!
> 
> The prompt for Day 2 of the Far Cry 5 Week was 'The Project at Eden's Gate', looking at the Seed family, or the Peggies, or the Project itself! And I can't believe I'm about to admit that, but while I was doing laundry, I found myself listening to Avril Lavigne's 'I'm With You' and this scenario popped into my head hahaha... The Seed family timeline doesn't add up to make this anywhere near possible in canon, but I liked the idea so much, I just had to write it.
> 
> That being said, please enjoy!

“Hey kid, you got a little something for us?”

John Duncan ignored the slurring coos of the rabble stood on the street. Tried to forget that he was only sixteen and hopelessly lost and colder than he’d ever been before. The late-November air cut through his slate grey cashmere coat, even after it had been buttoned to his neck. There was icy slush seeping into his dress shoes, and he could feel that the bottom of his slacks were wet also, sticking to his ankles. His face was numb. His stomach empty. He hadn’t even had time to retrieve his leather gloves from his room and his fingers were almost as blue as his stinging eyes.

How was he supposed to know what runways took with them? Boys like him  _ didn’t  _ run away. They inherited their father’s estates, attended functions, framed degrees in their swanky offices and had affairs with their secretaries. They lived in penthouses. Drove Lamborghinis. Had sake imported in from Tokyo.

But he couldn't go back. Not even to get his gloves, or a stack of bills from the safe. Not this time, not now that he was out in the world, gone for so many hours that they had surely phoned the police. He’d have to explain himself, beg them to forgive him for being so ungrateful.

And then he’d have to take the lash again.

He just couldn’t fucking  _ take  _ it anymore. Always in pain. Another shirt ruined where his wounds would split. Another prayer to a silent God. Another day watching them stare at him like he wasn’t good enough yet, wasn’t  _ perfect _ yet.

He didn’t want to know what he’d have to do to get there.

So he’d finally snapped.

And he’d run.

John crossed his arms across his body, hoping to keep in some heat, and kept walking. He didn’t know where he was. Some dark underbelly of Atlanta, sex shops and liqour stores and sleezy bars and the types he’d always been told  _ never _ to associate with. People who reminded him of Old Mad Seed. Not that he could remember much about him anyway. Just heavy set shapes. Loud voices. Foul breath. Vitriol and disdain _ . _

Footsteps were crunching behind him, hurrying to catch up.

Predators to their prey.

“I’m fucking talking to you, silver spoon, why don’t you take it out your mouth and make yourself useful?”

“Fuck off.” He muttered, aware that the words sounded ridiculous with so many years of elocution lessons slathered on top of them.

“What’s that? What did you say? Didn’t your  _ nanny  _ ever teach you to speak up?”

A forceful hand on his shoulder and suddenly John was pinned against the grimy window of an all night supermarket. Staring up at three leering businessmen who looked far too much like the men at his family’s church.

“He's pretty.”

“Barely legal I reckon.”

Vastly  _ illegal _ , John almost swiped back, but held his tongue.

That was a skill he’d learned well over the years.

How to stay quiet.

How to survive.

“He doesn’t say a lot does he, for a rich kid?”

“Trust fund, no doubt.”

“Ivy League.”

“Maybe he’s a mute-”

“If he’s dumb then he’ll be nice and quiet then while he proves his worth. He won't  _ scream _ .”

“Take him in the alley. No cameras.”

They grabbed him by the hair and dragged him, legs kicking towards the looming void between storefronts. Frozen garbage, mouldy dumpsters, not a chance in hell anyone would come looking for John Duncan, of  _ the  _ Duncans.

He screamed, but a hand clamped down over his mouth. The three wrestled him until his back hit one of the dumpsters. Hungry fingers tangled with buttons and the belt and zipper on his pants, drunken and clumsy. Frustrated cursing, as he tried to get away. His foot collided with something hardened and a yowl of pain echoed across the street. Bile straining at the back of his throat, burning acid in his starved insides threatening to-

“Hey, leave the dipshit with the fancy coat alone-” came the thick growl of a tall figure emerging from the alleyway, bundled up in worn, on-it’s-last-legs knitwear. A padded parka with a furry trim on the hood made the giant seem even broader than he probably actually was, but in the shadow of the neon ‘RALPHS’ sign, and through the heavy spit of snowfall, he looked Titanesque. Atlas, holding up the sky so it didn't come crashing down on the young runaway.

“What’s it to  _ you _ ?”

“A big fucking problem, actually.”

The giant fixed a hand around the nearest throat, and John felt himself get released from the heavy grip. He stumbled sideways and cowered behind the homeless man, who now snarled at the lechers and tightened the pressure on the whimpering neck.

“Get out of here before I paint the sidewalk with your brains.” The giant snarled, and John absolutely believed him.

The man nodded desperately, and within seconds of being released, gasping for the cold air, all three were gone. Disappeared around a corner. Slipping on the ice in their haste. Back to their hunt or back to their wives.

The giant slouched back to where he’d been resting in the alley for the night. John made to move on, but the man called back to him and he froze.

“You OK?”

“I’ve been better.” John groaned, tousling his hair to ease the pain in his scalp, but succeeding only in letting snowflakes tumble into his face. He could barely see his saviour as it was, and having pale shimmering flecks in his long eyelashes wasn’t helping.

“Fucking perverts. They’ll get what’s coming to them.”

“No they won’t.” John mumbled, aware that he was shaking.

“You want to take a few minutes to get yourself together?” The homeless man gestured to the space beside him.

There was something about that voice… it felt safe. Gruff, wizened, like it had been through hell. But safe. Safe enough for John to approach and sit on the sidewalk beside him, settling onto a stack of soggy cardboard that he tried to imagine was anything but.

A weird silence.

John pulled his knees up to his chest, cradling them like he used to when hiding in small places. Hoping not to be heard or seen. And he tried to decide what to do. Breathing hard. Mind racing. Yet nothing came to mind. He had nowhere to go. No one who would take him in. A lump gathered in his throat and a hot tear dribbled down onto his nose.

Not for thought of being hungry and helpless and filthy, although all troubled him deeply. Not for the sudden shock settling in that he’d nearly just been raped. Not for the unease he felt staring down the alley, unable to see the end of it through the winter night.

But the thought of having to go  _ home. _

“First night’s not even the worst, kid.”

The giant had pulled out a small penknife, army issue in appearance, and began whittling a small wooden block. The feathering of the wood looked like lustrous, thick fur. A fox perhaps, or a wolf? John still couldn’t see the man’s face, but he wondered if he was Native and it was a symbol to keep him strong. 

He  _ could _ , however, see the patches of flaking skin on the backs of the man’s hands. In desperate need of a moisturizer or medical cream or something, anything to give the impression that the man wasn’t about to shed like a snake.  _ Burns _ , he realised. And the odd cigarette stub mark between the raw patches. How did a homeless man get so  _ mutilated _ ?

John sniffed and wiped his tears away with his sleeve.

“Is that so?”

The man snorted.

“Even just from that answer, I can tell you won’t last long.”

“How did you know I was... like you?” John didn’t want to say  _ homeless _ quite yet. It felt like such a dirty word, an ‘epidemic’ as his uncle had branded it once.

“Guessed.”

John gave him a quizzical look that the giant caught out of the corner of his eye. He chuckled.

“If there's one thing I know on sight, it's a miserable kid who doesn’t want to go home.”

John continued to watch him work in silence for a good half hour, mesmerised at the craftsmanship. He thought back to his own work, his fine pencil sketches and pools of watercolours and minute engine parts for impeccably constructed model aircraft. Things to shut him up. Keep him indoors. Train that difficult right hand to function as it should.

“So did daddy not buy you a pony?” The quiet broken. There was humour in it, nothing but a gentle tease, but the insinuation that rich kids couldn’t also face unimaginable pain riled John, and he glared venomously.

“That’s none of your concern.” He spat in a low voice.

“Oh, it’s not, is it?”

“No.”

“Kind of thinking it is now that I suddenly seem to have another mouth to feed-”

“I don't need your  _ charity. _ ”

“Well you're sat in my drawing room, aren't you, your Royal Highness-”

“I didn’t  _ ask _ for your help-”

“Well you sure as fuck needed it.” The homeless man didn’t even sound angry, clearly used to people looking down their noses at him, treating him like an inconvenience. He just sounded exhausted. “Jesus, could you be anymore uptight?”

John pouted and hugged himself tighter.

“ _ Probably _ .”

The giant paused his work and rubbed his unkempt beard in exasperation. It was tinged red, even more so in the street lamp light. John noticed the man still hadn't looked up at him, wouldn't make eye contact. He wouldn't be able to identify him to the police in a lineup, or even from a mugshot.  _ Does he intend to rob me? Have his way with me like those men wanted to?  _

“Spoilt brat like you won’t last a week. If you’d prefer not to get stabbed or robbed, sell the Rolex, keep your head down, drop the accent and the airs and graces.”

Of course he’d spotted the watch. John twisted it on his wrist protectively.

“You can't have it.”

“I wasn't asking for it.”

“My father bought it for me.”

“Good for you. My father never did shit. Is sharing time over?”

The homeless man was too distracted to concentrate on his whittling and pocketed his handiwork swiftly, choosing instead to pull out a pair of thin gloves. He stretched them tenderly over his mottled skin, wincing a little as the fibres caught and pulled on the rough patches.

“Where did you get those scars on your hands?” John blurted, figuring that if he’d never see this man again after tonight, it didn’t matter if he upset him by sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

The giant sighed.

“Fought a bear for a bet.”

John’s mouth gaped open and the giant released a chuckle, pleased with himself.

“War. Iraq. Most of the homeless in this city are Vets. An incendiary device got me on patrol. I wasn’t hurt too badly, they look worse than they are. They made me stronger.”

He turned to rummage through a black knapsack and pulled out an opened packet of beef jerky. He stuffed a whole strip into his mouth, before offering it out. John felt his face twist with disgust and his stomach heaved at the prospect of eating meat so soon after hearing how this man burned. He turned away a little at the smell of it.

“Gotta stay strong if you want to survive.”

Hearing the low rumble from his empty stomach, John reached out and took a strip. He chewed on it warily. Salty. Slightly sweet. Hardly gourmet, but desperate times called for desperate measures. When he’d finished one, he found himself reaching for another.

“Why aren’t you there now? In the army? Why are you sat behind a supermarket?” He asked through a mouthful. It still sounded pompous.

The giant didn’t answer, still didn’t look at him, just sat back to rest against the wall behind them, gnawing on more jerky. John imagined a wild face under that hood, rabid eyes that had seen horrors beyond imagining. Sawn down teeth, flesh peeling away. 

“You look familiar, kid. But I don’t suppose I’ve seen you at the soup kitchen.” Something sounded odd, intrigued,  _ hopeful  _ maybe, and John wondered how he looked ‘familiar’ if this unusual creature had barely taken a second look at him. 

“My father owns a law firm in the city. One day he’s going to be District Attorney. I’ve been in the newspapers with him a few times.” John couldn’t help but boast a little, still a little concerned for the $20,000 watch on his wrist, but quite content that this man wouldn’t be holding him for ransom anytime soon.

A resigned, disappointed sigh.

“Yeah? Maybe I’ve slept on one of those papers then.”

Another uncomfortable silence.

“I know what it is.”

John looked up to where the giant was looking- the faded stars in the night sky, barely visible, but Cassiopeia was twinkling between the rooftops.

“You look how I’d imagine my little brother to look, I think, if he was still alive. He was always skinny, like you. Too skinny. Probably starved somewhere, on the streets, poor as shit like me.”

“He’s… dead?”

“Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

The giant didn’t elaborate.

“I… I don't have any brothers.” John regurgitated the lie that had been beaten into him for so many years.  _ No son of mine has delinquents and degenerates for brothers. _

“You got a Mom? A Dad?”

_ Of sorts. _

“Yes.”

“They love you?” John could hear the aching loneliness that lay behind the question.

_ No. I’m innately unloveable. _

“They try.” His voice broke a little. “I don’t exactly make it easy for them.”

The giant rolled his head forward and smiled down at his feet.

“Then you want my advice?”

John nodded, feeling tears building again and his lip quivering, threatening to break open into desperate wailing. Something about this felt so strange, so easy and natural.  _ Unconditional _ . Why was this man being so  _ nice _ to him?

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, far more gentle than John had expected.

“Go home, kid. There’s nothing more important than family.”

_ If only he had either of those.  _ A heavy sob wracked through his slight body and John found himself weeping loudly into his knees, without fear of being caught, judged, scolded and forced to pray away his resentment of his pitiful life. Tears and snot and misery came streaming down his face, body shaking with the effort of it all.

Warmth enveloped his shoulders, and he realised that the giant had removed his parka and wrapped it around him. Tucking him into it, like a child being settled into bed. And he leaned into the towering figure, sharing the warmth, curling himself into strong arms of inexplicable kindness. A kindness he thought he’d never know again.

“Stay here tonight. I’ll walk you back tomorrow.”

John cried until he fell asleep.

He dreamed of red hair, the heat of farmland alight, and a shadow in the back of a police car.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading guys! God, this was miserable to write, but I'm pretty proud of it! I'd intended it to be far shorter, but got carried away as I generally do! This was also my first time properly writing Jacob (I've written an exceptionally short bit in the next Whore of Babylon chapter) and I hope I did him right??? Fingers crossed anyway hahaha
> 
> If you haven't already, there's a previous FC5 Week entry on my profile in this series, featuring everyone's favourite flower girl and one of her Angels! (My first time writing Faith too, I've been very daring considering how long it took me to pluck up the courage to even write John hahahaha)
> 
> And, as per usual, you can find me on Tumblr at unclefungusthegoat!
> 
> Take care,  
Chloe x


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